This is poem number one in a series of six, the rest of which which I’ll post through the coming week.
The Old Way 1
I often think the modern world feels like a party,
In a huge room filled with loud and boorish guests
Monopolising the conversation and jabbing fingers
And shouting each other down.
Me? I’m the one hiding in the kitchen;
I’m the one holding a drink and leaning against the wall,
Looking fed up with the whole wretched thing.
And just to continue with this analogy,
I feel as though I’ve tried the side door
And found it unlocked and,
With a quick glance around to see if anyone’s watching,
I’ve slipped out, away from the modern world.